


Heavily Spilled

by Ghospice



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dominant Pennywise (IT), Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mirror Maze, Mirrors, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Pennywise is His Own Warning (IT), Teratophilia, Vaginal Sex, funhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghospice/pseuds/Ghospice
Summary: You enter the fun house and find something unexpected.'Your face flushes with nerves, and your body is still tingling with the palpitations of fear. This doesn't seem like a good idea. And you can't be sure, but a part of you thinks it's put some kind of curse on you, made you want this enough to risk being murdered, but maybe that’s a lie too, and you are simply too caught up in the moment, adrenaline coursing through your veins like a drug.'
Relationships: Pennywise (IT)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 115





	Heavily Spilled

“I’m going!” the busy sounds of the fairground swarm, your voice almost swallowed whole as you wave to your friends who head off towards the moving Ferris wheel. You turn back to face the wide circular lips of the fun house, a clown's mouth leading into a dizzying tunnel. You adored fun houses, especially the real spooky ones like this. It somehow toed the line between old fashioned and new. Pretty unnerving to look at as well.

No one appears to be entering, which makes it the perfect time. You climb in, and wobble as your foot touches down in the twisting tunnel, holding your arms out with a giggle. You hurry forward, and enter a room with swinging clowns. Laughter spills out of their bodies, low and goofy chuckles that remind you of Krusty the clown. 

You smile at the oddness of it all, at the eyesore of its neon blue lights, casting the swaying clowns into a ghostly color that makes the grinning white faces pop. Old calliope music plays cheerily in the background, and it creates a firm sense of wrong that tickles the hairs on your neck, makes the back of your gums itch. You can't tell if it's on purpose, and that only seems to make it freakier.

The clowns swing fast like over-sized bowling pins, and you pant from the effort it takes to dodge each one. Their swinging disrupts the room's stale air, marked by a lingering note of sweetness which makes your nose wrinkle. By the time you reach the end, sweat has accumulated at the small of your back. _‘I’m so out of shape.’ ___

__

__

You stare back at your own reflection within the next part. It’s a mirror maze. The lights flicker on and off, and it's unclear whether that's on purpose or just a malfunction. You step inside. The blinding flashes make you glad not to be epileptic. It’s the most disorienting effect, which you guess is the point, but that makes it no less annoying to endure.

Squinting you shuffle forward, and still manage to plonk face first into glass.

“Well this sucks,” you mutter, running your hand along the chilled surface. 

The lights fizzle like the low buzz of insects, but the maze is otherwise silent. Empty. It must be empty, because you hear no voices or footsteps. No vibration of life. Yet somehow, deep down, there's an unshakable feeling in your gut. A feeling of being watched.

It becomes so present, so corporeal, that as you make your way around the winding bends and sharp turns, so sure there's another person, you shout out, “Boo!”

There’s nothing but dead air and trapped heat, much to your embarrassment.

You rub at your eyes and swing around, wondering if you’ve hit a dead end. Everything looks the same, the mirrors blend into each other, and you can’t even cheat by following the floor because they connect so seamlessly into it.

You pick a random direction and squeeze through a slim gap, finding yourself in a long corridor, or what looks like a corridor. The air feels thicker here, condensed and thrumming like an invisible wave of energy. You swipe at your forehead to wipe away beads of sweat.

You take a few more steps forward and then stop. There’s a person at the end of the narrow path. 

At first you think it’s a statue or a picture, something made to catch guests off guard as they turn into the corridor. Skin bleached white, marked with scarlet lines running from its mouth, and soft orange tufts of hair prove it to be a clown. Startlingly tall, its curling mane almost sweeps the ceiling. White gloves press against the panel of glass it stands behind, as if it were peering in at those passing by.

You swallow and take a tentative step forward. The clown's fingers give a little twitch, curling against the clear surface. A reedy gasp spills out of you. It’s been staring at you this whole time. This revelation causes your stomach to twist with discomfort, and you freeze.

It— _he_ bends forward, shadow darkening his massive figure. He smiles wide, red makeup peeling back to reveal prominent buck teeth. It’s oddly childlike compared to the rest of him.

“Hello,” he says, low and wispy, like the hiss of a snake. Long fingers drum upon the glass separating you in a playful tap.

Your feet remain stuck, heart lodged in your throat. Under the flashing lights his hair seems to burn like ember, but his gaze never falters, never blinks. 

You don’t know what to do. Something feels wrong here, and maybe you should try and go back and call security- but then it hits you.

An actor. Of course. He’s part of the attraction, set in place to scare unsuspecting passers, and he’s been waiting for god knows how long only to end up with some weird woman staring at him. God. He’s probably waiting for you to go so he can get on to the next person.

You step closer, “m-man, I’m sorry,” you chuckle, strained, “you gave me a real good scare. So, thumbs up for that.”

He says nothing. The light shudders and brightens, deepening the red lines slit across his cheeks. A hulking figure that's all silver and long gangly limbs, unlike any clown you've ever seen before. You can’t help but stare for a moment too long.

There must be a way out. You’ll have to pass his mirror to reach it, and your stomach floods with butterflies at the thought.

“I’m just...just gonna,” you take the smallest of steps, gaze wavering beneath his porcelain chin to avoid his eyes, “get outta your way.”

The bubbles of excitement that come from a fun scare, like going over a steep hill on a roller coaster, do not come. It’s not a pleasant experience. Instead tension draws tight, and with every step you feel as if it’s about to snap.

Beneath your foot something cracks and you skid along with a yelp. Startled, you look down. 

Shreds of broken glass lay scattered, gleaming against the white floor in a coat of dark liquid. Panic grips you in realization, “oh shit, I think I-” just before you can check your foot for injuries, you see the trail. It streaks along a red path, until it reaches what looks like a wide, dark puddle. Heavily spilled. Your heart pounds.

“There’s blood on the floor,” you state, evenly, and turn to inform the man dressed as a clown, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The glass is a wall of impenetrable darkness where he once stood.

“What the fuck?”

Nausea somersaults in your stomach. You turn away from the blood, ready to go back the other way and find help, but the clown is standing right behind you.

“AH!” you shriek, tripping back. He looms in the tight space, broad and ill fitted, his reflection repeated on either side. As you stare up at him, the corner of your eye catches strange movement from his reflections.

“Do you like the circus?” he suddenly chirps, drawing your attention back. His cherub cheeks ball up like candied apples, stretching his smile into a pleasant grin. You think of the blood behind you and the words struggle to pass your mouth.

“I-I don’t follow-”

“What about candy?” his head tilts, and his reflections shift, flex their fingers. He rattles off like an excitable child, “Balloons? Popcorn? Peanuts?”

When you only stare he stops. Eyes falling wayside, like a malfunctioning toy. Abruptly they snap back to you, and his mouth curves into a sly look, plump lips barely parted. He breathes heavily.

“Pleasure?”

He saunters closer, forcing you to step back.

“Excuse me?” your eyes widen. There’s a building sense of terror that slides behind your rib cage like a slender pointed knife. It starts as a prickle, and works its way over your skin raising the fine hairs. The fun house walls seem to shrink and bend in unnatural ways, and his reflections blur strangely. It makes you stumble, vision spinning.

A shard of glass pops beneath your foot, a hard chime that cuts through the pregnant pause.

He takes a dramatic step forward, the distance between you halved. The blood congealing is now a foot or so behind you. The urge to run builds, but your blood has turned to slushed ice in your veins. 

“W-what do you...do you want?” you plead.

His ever smiling face darkens, eyes biting orange like the burning wick inside a pumpkin.

“Do you like to be fucked?” he hisses, and your mouth gapes, “to be touched and had and ruined?”

Fear slashes through any hesitance. You twist and break into a dash, shoes splattering with droplets of blood. The clown’s growling laughter echoes down the passage, far more menacing than the goofy clowns from before, rumbling between your ears. It isn’t sweet or joyous, but filled with ash and venom. Something ungodly, corrupt.

“Holy ffu-fuck,” you barrel through the maze, disoriented. You bash into unseen walls more times then you bother to count, tallying up bruises and cuts. Sweat soaks through your thin top and sticks to your back. The mirrors seem to be closing in on you, sections getting more and more cramped. You're beginning to suspect there’s no wait out.

There’s a rapid tapping sound behind you which causes you to whip back, before giving out an alarmed scream. 

The clown hangs from the ceiling, and it skitters closer like an arachnid moving on all fours, limbs crooked and long. Its sclera is flushed black, and it rushes forward, legs clicking like plated chitin. You run in blind fear, pushing through any gap, any slight crevice to put as much distance between you as possible.

Finally you end up in a long straight corridor, and all but sprint down, breath wheezing out of you like a cut wound in water. Your lungs can't seem to refill fast enough, as panic clogs up the most basic of actions. The corridor seems to go on forever, no matter how far you run.

A pair of arms seep through the glass up ahead, unnaturally long things that end it white claws. You try running past but they shoot forward and clamp onto your flesh.

A cry bursts from you as you thrash but the monster's grip is like steel. It tugs you back into the mirror as your hands scrabble for something to hold. The last dredges of light fade from the corridor, until you're in suffocating darkness.

Its foul breath pants as a string of drool slides down your collarbone. You yank forward in a desperate attempt to dislodge it, bones almost popping from their sockets. It’s talons puncture your sides, and the wet heat of blood wells on your skin. It causes you to panic more, lurching hard and only drilling its claws deeper. The muscles on your face crumple.

“Let go!- god please-!”

Surprisingly the monster does as you say. Its talons retreat and you hit the glass before you with a ‘humph!’ and slide to the floor. As quick as you're able you spin and flatten yourself against its hard surface. 

There’s nothing there. Only a black void. No light enters it, and staring at it too long is no different from shutting your eyes. You turn away before it disturbs you further, and look back into the hallway of the maze. It’s empty as well. You exist in a space that shouldn’t exist, and the wrongness tugs at your stomach sickeningly.

The clown was nowhere in sight, but you'd be a fool to think that would last long. You climb to your feet, and slam a fist into the glass. When that fails, you step back and deliver a hard kick. Nothing. Another one, and the only thing that shakes is the muscles in your legs. You kick harder. Over and over with a grunt. There’s a noise behind you. Each grunt twists into a miserable shriek as the glass stands perfectly still and unbroken. Mocking you.

And that’s exactly what the monster was doing, wasn't it? It was playing with you, and once it grew bored it would slaughter you, because that’s what monsters do. There was no doubt in your mind. You sink to the floor, body aching horrendously. 

“This is insane,” you whisper, not daring to close your eyes.

All you can do is wait, hope someone comes by. The monster could be anywhere, and given the pool of blood, it has already killed. It isn't an actor, or a person at all. It’s a predator, one that was simply waiting to see what might walk by. Your mind doesn't want to ruminate on the supernatural details, but it's hard not to. What’s happening shouldn't be real.

Dread roots you to the floor like a weighted ball on your organs. Standing up feels too much of a challenge when you’re more afraid then you’ve ever been in your life. Just as you’re close to giving up, there’s movement from inside the maze.

You jump up and bang the glass with your fists, “help!” it echoes in dull thuds, “help! I’m in here!”

The lights continue to snap on and off, and at first you think you’ve imagined it, but then a person pokes their head into the corridor. 

You moan in dismay, tearing your hands off the glass. The clown enters the hallway, like it were any other guest. It strolls along and comes far too close to your spot. It cracks its head to the side and stares at you, yellow eyes burning wide, before gripping its face as its red lips fall into an exaggerated ‘o’. 

“Oh dear! Such a scary creature watching Pennywise. Whatever will I do,” it whimpers, and paws at its face as tears drip from its eyes. They twinkle and float up, light catching their ascent. Terror courses through you in cold waves, “s-so afraid, s-so s-scared,” it gibbers on, body rattling. It’s rabbit teeth nipping at its chin as they chatter.

Pennywise, you think, and wonder why that name strikes a cord, like something you’ve always known but never tasted on the tip of your tongue until now.

The clown staggers closer in it’s faux terror. Its sobbing quickens, and bubbles up into hearty giggles. The sound bursts something soft and delicate within your mind. It reverberates in your brain until you want to scream. 

When it removes its hands from its face you see it’s smiling, showing off the pointed edges of inhuman teeth. It watches you with eyes of honey, and you can feel its satisfaction, reveling in every second of your horror.

Then its smile drops. It’s pupils waver apart, head twisting to the side like a curious dog, “how did you end up there?”

You give no answer, eyeing the dark stains now plastered over its front. They remind you of a butcher's apron after a slaughter, and your breath jumps. 

The creature looks disappointed by your lack of response. It wears emotions like its thin cotton gloves, you think, as they barely cover the blackened tips of its nails, its true nature so close to the surface. 

“Do you need a hand?” it rasps. There’s saliva running out from the dark spaces between its cherry lips.

You shake your head and drift further back into the dark. As if that offered any real protection. 

“No?” its head cranes lower, puffy shoulders sloping, “how about two? Or three?” It smiles when you gawk at it in confusion. 

Something grips you from behind. You scream and struggle, looking down to find white gloves sprouting from the inky black. 

Fingers crawl over you like the legs of a thousand insects. They creep across your skin in quick, unsettling movements. They paw at you, ripping your thin summer clothes, all while the clown watches impassively. Some bite into your flesh with pointed nails while others caress and squeeze. Your arms are pinned helplessly to the side, and you writhe about like a hooked worm. The nightmare brings tears to your eyes, and you send a weeping glare at the figure watching you through glass of its own creation, chest heaving. 

“S-stop!”

“Stop?” it parrots, leaning close as if it were viewing some fascinating sideshow attraction.

A hand curls into your cheek, and digits prod at your lips. You twist your neck away but it presses in, past the dull edges of your teeth. You garble out words and it uses the opportunity to force more fingers in.

The clown looks dazed, its lidded stare full of hunger, “so wet and soft. Every part. Warm as blood.”

With horror, you realize it can feel what the hands are doing to you, as if they were mere extensions of itself. You bite down hard on the roaming digits exploring your mouth. They still. The fabric tastes rancid on your tongue, something bitter and sweet, and you gag, trying to spit them out. They retreat, slithering out of your drooling mouth leaving you gasping and sucking in fresh air.

Just as you recover from that, a hand searches between your legs. Knowing its destination you squeeze your thighs together, but the monster simply uses its other many hands to pull them apart.

Red heat blooms across your skin. Your eyes avert its stare, but that doesn’t dissuade the firm strokes it marks you with, sliding its fingers back and forth in an agonizingly slow manner. Worst of all is the twitches of excitement, feather light tingles that spread uncontrollably. With each heavier press those feelings grow more intense, forcing a sharp inhale out of you.

“She does like to be touched,” it whispers, as if to itself, and when you look its eyes are glowing, “maybe she’ll like being fucked too?”

The vulgar words have an unintended effect. You grimace, biting your lip, but pleasure surges and you can feel wetness spreading through your panties.

“Just-t let me go,” you pant, twisting in a dying thrash against its unending touch, “and I w-wont tell anybody-” you grunt at a violent squeeze of your breast, gloved fingers growing sharp under the fabric.

“Perhaps I will take my fill of you, savor every last bite,” it scowls, even as drool floods its silken attire, though whether from its newly expressed desire to eat you or fuck you, you can’t be sure.

Suddenly the many gloved hands tense, and then you’re thrown forward at the glass. You hit it with a short cry and collapse on the ground. Blinking, you look around and discover yourself back inside the mirror maze. The glass wall appears unbroken. You look forward and find the clown peering down at you, its height infinitely more intimidating from your position on the ground. You spring to your feet, pulse beating wildly in your ears.

“Go then,” the clown sneers, nodding its head and gesturing behind you, “run run run away. Perhaps I will find you, safe and tucked away in bed, and then I might feast upon your flesh,” it shrugs it's mighty shoulders, eyes dull, “who can say.”

You take a trembling step back, leaning against smooth glass. Excitement lingers shamefully between your thighs, in the quick beat of your blood despite the fear. The clown creature must know this too, because its nostrils are flared, as if scenting something appetizing, pupils blown wide.

You twist on your heel to dart away, but find yourself pausing. The clown watches you with a narrowed brow, awful gaze dripping with malice and well, drool. You turn towards it, heart galloping at the stupidity of what you’re going to ask.

“Y-you just want to, to,” gesturing between the both of you awkwardly, face burning, “if w-we do that, c-can we call it quits?”

The clown cocks its head, long arms curled at its sides.

“You’ll um, let me go. A-and not follow me h-home.”

Because in the grand scheme of things it sounds better than being eaten alive. 

“I will leave you be,” it summarizes, “in return you will sleep with me.”

Your face flushes with nerves, and your body is still tingling with the palpitations of fear. This doesn't seem like a good idea. And you can't be sure, but a part of you thinks it's put some kind of curse on you, made you want this enough to risk being murdered, but maybe that’s a lie too, and you are simply too caught up in the moment, adrenaline coursing through your veins like a drug.

“Yes,” you whisper, timidly.

The clown rolls its eyes, as if your answer was an easy thing. But then it steps forward without hesitation, closing in on you in the blink of an eye. Your breath catches in your throat, once again taken aback by how big it is, especially in the tightly spaced corridor.

“You want this,” it says, raising its hands to grasp at your arms, “I can smell it.”

“S-sure,” you say, if only to appease it. The clown's eyes trail over your trembling skin, and the curve of its teeth glimmer from between its wet lips. Its fingers run down to your elbows where it stops, thumb pad pressed into the junction there. It’s horrifying mouth stretches into a wicked smirk.

“Turn around.”

The front of its suit almost touches your body, and as soon as you do what it says, you feel its hands upon you. 

It grinds forward, a slow flex of its hips, as if testing out how it feels, and you sense the restrained power in its iron grip. It both startles and excites you. Keening softly, you open your legs further without conscious thought. The overhead lights flash but even they feel muted when you’re so focused on the sensation of where both your bodies meet.

“I knew you would allow this,” it nudges closer, fingers playing along your hips before it trails a talon against the crest of your spine, “predictable little creature.”

“O-oh,” you sigh as the sharp tip of its thumb strokes down the center of your back. It stretches out that tight ball of fear, and the clown groans, as if it could taste its very flavor. Saliva pats your back, soaking the flimsy top covering you. It tugs incessantly at your clothing.

“Off,” it demands, but it does not allow you to stand straight and remove it, its body looming over you. Instead you have to reach down and awkwardly shimmy out of it, leaving on just a bra and jeans.

Its fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans and drag them down. Your face falls against the mirror, arms pressed forward as it finishes undressing you. A shiver of cool air touches your bare bottom.

The mirror steams up with your hot puffs, and from your position you manage to catch its eyes in the reflection. They’ve darkened to red, a crimson color that boils beneath the surface of its amber irises. It's a heated look filled with hunger, one that drives a jab of arousal through your belly, growing slick without having to touch yourself.

“Were I to follow you home,” it speaks suddenly, eyes falling to your backside as it smooths a clawed hand across the swell of your ass, “you would not be unable to stop me.”

It brushes against your inner thigh, tickling the delicate skin of your untouched cunt. You groan and tilt your spine like an arched cat, trying to move into its sinful touch.

“But still you want this,” it grounds down, thick thighs pushing your legs apart. It speaks in a throaty purr, “you would allow me to do anything, if I just had my way with you. Wouldn’t you, little thing?”

“Yes,” you pant, eyes squeezed shut, focused on the sensation, “y-yes.”

“I thought I might find another tasty treat,” it murmurs close to your ear, “but Pennywise found something _even_ better.”

Your feel its hardness tucked behind the silky layer of its costume, large and straining. It writhes with a life of its own.

“It’s, it’s moving,” you babble, unsure whether to be more afraid or aroused.

“Oh,” it croaks, then swallows back the saliva in its mouth, “this old thing?” it sneers, and then there's a sound of fabric tearing, before you feel its heavy cock lashing between your legs. It’s prehensile, weaving like an agitated creature in its search for your warmth. 

“G-god.”

The clown giggles, a nasty little shrill sound that twists into something darker at the back of its throat. 

It doesn't bother to warm you up, perhaps sensing your wetness, or perhaps it just didn't care. It lurches forward and pierces you open, slides into your wet heat with one powerful thrust. 

You shout, and a hand winds its way into your messy hair, pulling your head back towards it. There's a deep vulnerability, knowing with one wrong move it could snap your neck like a twig. It lets out a deep growl, and you feel it even in the twitch of its cock as it settles inside.

It presses your face into the ice cold glass, and pulls back. It almost leaves you before it thrusts back in, a long and deep stroke that you’re surprised meets little resistance. It pulls a startled gasp from you, and your muscles flutter around its member. It steadily increases its speed, building up to a pounding rhythm.

“Yes, l-like that, please.”

Its large hand remains spread over your skull, keeping your face plastered to the wall. The mirror trembles beneath you with each frenzied jolt, and it isn't long before it's hammering away with furious abandon. It’s difficult to do anything but make small pleasing noises, which only seem to excite it more, as it humps away at your back. With each slam home your body twitches and pleasure bursts in white hot waves that have you pressing back to meet it with all your strength. Compared to your own, it makes your movements seem dainty, as if it were an animal in heat.

“A dirty girl,” it huffs in a ragged breath, “letting all and any see her be taken like this,” then you hear the smile in its poisonous voice, “like a no good _slut_.”

You bite your lip hard. It was right. Anyone could walk into the mirror maze and see you, bent forward being ravaged from behind. But there’s no way you want it to stop, and you think the clown𑁋 _Pennywise_ , knows this too.

It touches a deep bundle of nerves with its next thrust, and you moan, face red. The idea of being seen like this only brings you closer to release. It pinches the scalp of your head, and gives another yank, drawing your neck back until it's taut. Your bones ache in protest.

It runs its mouth along the delicate column of skin, the blackened muscle of its tongue leaving a trail of glossy saliva in its wake. You shiver, and feel its needle teeth graze the rounded meat of your shoulder. It’s probably debating taking a bite. As if to prove your point, you feel its jaw clamp down and its teeth break skin.

You hiss at the spasm of pain that shoots down your shoulder, and feel its body shaking with repressed laughter. It’s mouth sucks at the bite, while its hips continue to piston forward, driving you over the edge. You come with one hard pump of its muscles, tightening around it in a violent squeeze. The creature lets out a groan, rubbing its face against your cheek.

When you peek back at it you see its eyes roll white, unseeing. It snarls and grows still, hunched over you and embedded deep. The sight of it coming rouses you again, and feather soft pleasure blooms beneath the heat of it spilling inside you, making you squirm and press your thighs together, as if to trap its warm cock in place.

Everything is quiet aside from your own huffing. The clown barely even breathes. Its cock slips out, limp and still hot from your empty walls, and you feel the mixture of your activities seeping down your leg. It releases you and you slump against the mirror, sweat cooling on your skin. You look up at it, dazed.

Its eyes remain a milky white, as if it’s forgotten to bring itself back to a more human look. The sight doesn't alarm you as much as it probably should. It’s mouth is agape, before it licks its lips and shakes its massive head. When its eyes return they’re a soft blue.

“Wasn’t that fun?” it asks, all sweet and unnaturally placid now its urges have been dealt with. Its teeth remain daggered, and it gives your body a once over with muted interest.

“Perhaps I will still visit you,” it says. Your heart stutters in fear, to which it gives a suggestive grin, dark tongue caught between its rabbit teeth, “I can feast upon you again and again. Only...in a different manner, little friend.”

It doesn't wait around for your response. You blink and in the next moment it's gone. You rise unsteadily to your feet, pulling on your clothes and taking a slow shuffle out of the fun house. This time, you find the exit almost straight away.

“Son of a bitch.”

The sky is darker now, and you take one last glance at the fun house before searching for your friends in a blank daze, the throbbing of your wounds growing stronger as you come down from the high, and your heart nestles back behind your rib cage like an undisturbed bird. By the time you find them, the memories of the clown have already drifted far, far away.

**Author's Note:**

> when i wrote Pennywise scurrying across the ceiling I had the image of David Bowie walking on the walls in The Labyrinth. Do with this information what you will. Hope you enjoyed! :D


End file.
